The two survivors of QF-1 were coming home. They’d spent a couple of days in hospital recovering from their ordeal, and were likely to be physically and mentally exhausted for a while yet. The journos had been instructed to keep their questions brief and not to overstress them. This could be one of those great survival-against-all-odds stories the public ate up.

Here in this very room, the survivors, both in their twenties, would be reunited with their families. It promised to be quite an emotional scene. Amongst all the sadness of so many people lost, everyone hoped some joy would come out of the reunion about to take place.

The RAAF Hercules transport which had brought the two home was taxiing to its holding point on the apron. Several medical staff rushed to the door as its engines spooled down. The door was flung open and a knot of people instantly formed at the base of the mobile stairs. A young woman appeared at the doorway of the aircraft, smiled and stepped into the sea of doctors, nurses and officials. A man followed, head bandaged, and joined the turmoil.

The radio journalist switched her view to the monitor. It was already happening up there on the screen. Bloody TV bastards always got first access. No doubt a report was going out live on the networks, interrupting children’s shows, soap operas, and home-shopping programs. The thought really annoyed her. The brief flash the journalist managed to get of the young woman standing at the doorway of the plane surprised her. She was beautiful. Asian.

A door opened behind the dais, diverting the journalist’s attention from the TV screen, and several worried-looking people filed in. The parents, obviously. One set was Indonesian. The radio journalist checked her briefing notes. That’s right, she remembered now. The girl who’d survived was Indonesian, an Australian citizen but born in Indonesia of Indonesian parents. The girl’s mother had a tissue out and was dabbing an eye. The energy levels in the room surged. Double doors off to one side banged open and the two survivors, surrounded by medicos, RAAF personnel, diplomats, cameramen and Qantas execs, burst in. The parents were instantly on their feet, rushing to comfort their children. Flashes went off, video lights blazed. It was beautiful.

* * *

Elizabeth had been given the new name of Tuti Murthi, and she was feeling tense about it. This was a serious acting job. Being Suluang’s lover was comparatively easy. The people looking at her with sympathetic faces wanted facts, tears, feelings.

Tuti had been well briefed, as had the agent playing her fellow survivor, Vince, the man who had helped her deal with Suluang. So were the alleged parents up on stage, who were as much Tuti’s parents as she was a QF-1 survivor.

They had to put on a good show. They would all have to endure the spotlight for a couple of days, then it would be announced that a magazine had bought exclusive rights to their story. The tale would be written, pictures taken, then they’d all beg to be left alone to get on with their lives. She’d get on a plane and disappear.

The journos were getting ready to ask their questions. Tuti was not going to enjoy this. She looked forward to the moment when she could write the name on a piece of paper, screw it up, throw it in the bin, and move the hell on.

* * *

Niven watched the show on TV. All the major networks covered it, interrupting their regular shows with the reunion. The two stand-ins were doing a great job. There was a tap on the door.

‘Come,’ said Niven.

‘Good, hoped you’d be watching,’ said Griffin as he put his head round the door. ‘Mind if I sit in?’

‘No, take a seat.’

Griffin sat and smiled at the news report. ‘This was a great idea. Yours?’

‘No, actually. It was Joe’s — Joe Light’s.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Griffin said.

‘Seriously. Had it completely figured out. He pointed out that, as the passenger manifest hadn’t been released, all we had to do was take his and Suryei’s names off it and, bingo, it could never be proved they were on the flight.’

‘Shit, that’s clever. So simple. The guy should be working for us.’

‘Funny you should say that,’ said Niven.

20 000 feet, Eastern Australian airspace, 2032 Zulu, Tuesday, 12 May

Joe and Suryei had been put on a plane home. Flying wasn’t something either of them was keen on, but they weren’t given a choice. Fortunately, the flight had been uneventful, even boring, and she decided that boredom was a good thing when it came to flying. Thankfully, after her apprehension had faded, sleep had come. Counselling had been a big help. At least now she could close her eyes without the nightmares invading the darkness. But she knew they were in her head somewhere, dreams that made her sweat with fear.